


Of Meetings in Meadows and Mending of Hearts

by RomancebyFaye



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Charles Has Issues, Charles is a bit broken, Charles is not a fluffy little bunny, Fluff and Angst, Logan is a flirt, Logan is a teddy bear, Logan is patient, M/M, Past Abuse, Past Child Abuse, Past Erik Lehnsherr/Charles Xavier - Freeform, Psychological Trauma, Xavierine - Freeform, this will be explicit, this will have a happy ending
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-09
Updated: 2016-09-09
Packaged: 2018-08-07 15:46:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7720579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RomancebyFaye/pseuds/RomancebyFaye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles is a broken man.</p><p>His telepathy is all but gone, and with it his ability to shield himself from others. Abandoned by the two he loved most in the world, he remains wounded in more ways than one. He finds his own measure of peace in a tiny cabin on an abandoned estate, eking out his existence off the surrounding forest.</p><p>He tells himself it's enough to be able to live in silence, alone and unwanted. He doesn't hope to find love again, to find a family. He doesn't deserve such things.</p><p>And then one day, as he's pulling rabbits from his snares in the meadow, a new chance at both takes him completely by surprise.</p><p>Though the first meeting is a bit of a shock, to put it mildly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> So, I recently fell into Cherik headlong, and while rolling around in all the glorious fic/art/amazingness I stumbled over a tiny 'lil Xavierine. It wasn't until I caught it and looked into its hypnotizing eyes that I realized how rare it was to see one out in the wild.
> 
> So long story short: There's not nearly enough of this pairing out there, here is my meager offering. I hope you like them as much as I do.
> 
> There should really be more.
> 
> NOTE: THIS IS LOGAN/CHARLES NOT CHARLES/ERIK
> 
> I love Cherik, but this ain't a Cherik fic.
> 
> I don't own these characters. I'm not making any money off of this whatsoever.
> 
> This is set somewhere in the nebulous past - think breeches and waistcoats, cravats and calf boots. However since I didn't have the desire to research things to death, there will surely be inconsistencies such as use of colloquial terms and inventions that didn't exist in that time frame. Like running water, but believe me when I say the hygienic practices of the past are often far from sexy. Just go with the flow (of indoor plumbing) and remember it's an AU.

 

Of Meetings in Meadows and Mending of Hearts

By RomancebyFaye

* * *

 

Chapter One

 

 

The forest is heavy with mist, the morning light filtering down through the leaves, not quite strong enough to chase it away. Dew clung to the undergrowth, leaving tracks of wet droplets along Charles’ old buckskin breeches and gathering on the worn leather of his boots. He had learned how to make them weather proof at least, so most of the water stayed outside, leaving his legs and feet dry.Technically, this land was owned by some lord or other, but in the few years Charles had made his home here, it had never been used. He had once ventured up to the massive manor out of curiosity, but it was in disrepair and uninhabited, the windows and doors boarded shut.

 

He had found an one room cabin in the woods - probably a hunting lodge at some time in the long past - but it stayed fairly dry when it rained, and the small fireplace kept it warm enough during the winter months. When no one came to chase him away during his first few nights, he and his meager belongings had stayed there.

 

Charles shied away from others. He could guard his mind from one or two - assuming he wasn’t stressed or tired - but being unable to protect his mind as he once could made being in a press of people agonizing. Unfortunately, necessity dictated he travel to town occasionally to sell things he had scavenged in the forest and to buy supplies. It was inevitable that he would hear recent news on these trips. On his last one, it seemed the skirmishes on the borders were coming to an end. For him and the town near him the war was far enough away that people could still buy food from stalls burgeoning with goods, but close enough they crossed themselves as they spoke of someone’s friend's nephew who had seen and heard stories of the horrors and heroes there.

 

It did nothing to encourage him to move back into society in any form.

 

Seeing familiar leaves he moved a few steps off the path and crouched, digging near the bottom of the plant for its starchy root. There was a solid handful of fat, pale bulbs. Once boiled it would soften and, with a little salt and seasoning from his dried herbs, it would become quite tasty. He stood back up, once again following the familiar path and hoping his traps had managed to catch some rabbits.

 

He made his way to the clearing where he always set up his snares. There the woods gave way to a small meadow and it was the best place Charles had found to catch the small animals. They loved to nibble at the patches of tender clover that grew there, and the cover of the canopy was never too far to protect them from the prying eyes of far flying hawks and falcons.

 

He remembered a time, many years gone by now and nearly seeming a different lifetime altogether, when his younger sister had mocked him for refusing to eat rabbit stew. Raven had been young then, the both of them had, living a life others would think charmed. In truth, the only solace they had found in that sprawling mansion was each other. Their man their mother had married after their father’s death was a terror. His son was no better, and Charles mother faded to a drifting shadow, seeking comfort for her grief in the bottom of the closest bottle.

 

Even when the only members of their broken family left were Raven and himself, ghosts had haunted the place. Even during the blindingly bright days when Erik had first come into their lives hadn’t been enough to remove the echoes contained in the walls. And even Erik - whom Charles still felt pain at thinking of now - even Erik had mocked him for his delicate sensibilities when Charles had turned squeamish upon watching him skin and gut a boar he had felled while hunting.

 

Charles smiled grimly as he found his snares had caught him two rabbits. He thought of Erik and Raven, the two people he had most loved and adored, as he untangled his prey from their bonds. They were the ones who had hurt him more deeply, wounded him more completely than any beating he had taken from his cursed stepfather, more than any dismissal he had ever received from his vacant mother. Though it wasn’t as if he were sinless. As he snapped each tiny neck in turn, he wondered what they would think too see him, the supposed soft, pampered little Charles, like this eking out a meager existence.

 

But of course now he was as broken at the necks of the rabbits in his hands, the very gift Raven and Erik had refused and abhorred to be used on themselves lost, and with it their own use for him. Bitterness and sadness welled up within him, not nearly as sharp or overwhelming as it had been years ago, but it would probably never go away completely.

 

He pushed away the memories with a sigh. They had left him after all, and if ever they missed him or felt guilt, it hadn't been enough for them to seek him out. He had waited until he couldn’t stand to walk through what was left of those remaining halls, even darker with memories of happiness there to remind him what he had lost.

 

He began to string the rabbits together, tying their legs so he could sling them over his shoulder to keep them out of his way while he scavenged for more food. The recent moisture should be good for mushrooms and there was a spot in the clearing that usually sprouted a good sized crop. If he were lucky there would be enough so he could gather some extra to take into town and sell.

 

He stood, walking a good distance towards the center of the clearing before he promptly froze, rabbits dangling on their string.  It was never a good sign - the ambient noise of the forest that usually faded into the background, but always there - suddenly disappearing completely. He blamed his wayward thoughts for not noticing the forest had gone silent.

 

Charles stood absolutely still, trying to calm his mind and focus. He reached out, flimsy fragile threads of power where there had once been massive nets malleable as spider silk and strong as diamond. He could feel the dim presence of the animals that were hidden near him, a gopher, dug deep beneath his feet, a thrush at the edge of the trees, feathers fluffed and song silent. There were other things, farther away and less clear, but they all left the fleeting impression of the desire to hide echoing in his skull. He was still unable to capture what exactly had affected them. Pushing his power farther, he ignored the pain that burned along the back of his skull as the gossamer threads stretched even thinner, the scar shielded from view by his long hair aching with the effort.

 

Sweat sprung out on his brow, both from fear and strain, but he couldn’t feel anything past the desire to be still, be silent. As he searched, the small blurs of the animals near him abruptly shivered with tension and Charles snapped his focus to the area they all pointed. He began to move away, slowly creeping back towards the edge of the forest while silently cursing his carelessness at venturing so far into the meadow in the first place.

 

A burst of movement erupted from the place he was watching; a herd of deer springing in graceful arcs as they fled across the open ground. It would have been beautiful if not for the fearful tangle of thoughts they blasted out, as much as animals could form thoughts anyways. The jumble of images that accosted Charles sent their own spark of fear through him, for in the eyes of the fleeing animals, he had caught the wavery impression of their hunter, and it could only be the shape of a man.

 

Running into another poacher here would be just as dangerous as running into the person who owned the land.

 

He dropped flat on his stomach, holding his breath and not daring to move as more activity heralded something else bursting into the clearing. There was less underbrush here to cover him than the woods afforded, though Charles dared to hope his drab clothing would hide him well enough. Besides, the deer had moved away and surely the hunter would follow them. Charles only needed to hide until the other moved on. He sank his fingers down into the earth, digging them into the soil to stop their trembling as he waited. And waited.

 

It was several minutes before he worked up the nerve to lift his head slightly, trying to peek through knee high grass.

 

Nothing.

 

Shifting up a bit higher, Charles checked all the area in front of him but could see nothing in the field but softly shifting grasses. His arms trembled with the effort of holding himself aloft at the odd angle, but he dared not move to stand until he was sure he was alone. He pushed back slowly, rising on all fours as he once again reached out with his mind.

 

The pitch of fight or flight was shrieking all around him like a soprano’s sustained note at the height of an aria.

 

For all that he knew it was pointless, his brain screamed one refrain over and over and he found himself obeying as if the quaking of fear from the tiny minds near him were completely his own.

 

_Run! Run! Run!_

 

A snarl of tangled red burst along Charles consciousness from only a few paces away, the feral excitement of a predator bursting hot adrenaline through his blood. Making a desperate dash for the treeline, he could hear the thumps of footfalls behind him along with an animalistic growling. The mind was different from anything he had ever encountered, before or after the accident that shunted his powers. It was an odd tangle of animal and human, and it filled him with a fevered drive to escape.

 

If he could just make it into the trees, where the fog was still thick, he might have a chance. He was almost there, almost, _almost_ …

 

A heavy impact on his back brought him down in a tumble of limbs both his own and not. The momentum of their tangled struggle caused them to roll across the ground, flattening the high grass in their wake. Charles struggled wildly, scratching anything he could reach. When a muscled arm pressed across his face, forcing his head backwards, he sank his teeth into it with a vengeance. The gush of blood, metallic and hot across his tongue, made him gag. But he didn’t let go. Neither of them did.

 

In an effort to protect his exposed throat, Charles brought his own arm across it, hoping to keep himself from being strangled. However, instead of trying to choke him, his attacker, through movements Charles’ couldn’t follow or fight, shifted their positions so his feet were under them and merely lifted Charles off the ground as if he weighed nothing. The feeling of weightlessness flipping his stomach was all the warning he had before he was slammed back onto the ground, the wind knocked out of him as his chest flatly took both his weight and the considerable weight of his attacker. The blow forced his teeth even deeper into his mouthful of forearm, but the need for oxygen rid him of it immediately after. He nearly choked on the blood pooled in his mouth as his body struggled instinctively to supply him with air.

 

His attacker used the few seconds of Charles’ incapacitation much more effectively by flipping him over and pinning his arms and legs. Charles diaphragm was still trying to recover from the blow, leaving him stunned and nearly limp as he finally got a look at his now captor.

 

The first impression was a single word: _Dangerous_.

 

His hair was thick and wild, standing up in strange symmetry on each side of his head. Equally thick sideburns that joined the beard across his chin appeared relatively neat and trimmed. He was heavy and heavily muscled. The fact that his weight was much greater than Charles’ own would be evident even if the man weren’t currently lying on top of him, or Charles was not quite underweight from his meager lifestyle. His lips were pulled back to show sharp, even teeth and Charles couldn’t be sure, but the man might be smiling.

 

If Charles wasn't afraid for his life, he might have found him handsome.

 

Charles lungs tried to start working just then, causing him to choke a bit, and he coughed reflexively, spraying blood across the other man’s face. There was another pulse of red that came from the man over him as his face moved closer with a low growl.

 

An answering flicker of a desperate need to escape pulsed along Charles’ skin and he gave an abrupt heave of his body. It was met with a harsh growl, sinking through his thin shirt and worn jacket, down through bone and tissue to echo in his own chest. The hands pinning his wrists tightened and the man pressed his weight down even further, staring at Charles’ mouth.

 

His eyes were near to black, pupil spread out like an oil slick, and Charles’ could only tremble as the face moved in too close to focus on. He clenched his eyes and mouth shut, his body wracked with terror.

 

He certainly wasn't expecting the man to lick him.

 

Shocked, Charles’ mouth opened in a gasp and was promptly filled with tongue.

 

The red snarl is pulsing something else now, something that pushes right past the pitiful shields of Charles mind, left weak  and paper-thin from the assault.

 

_MineICaughtHimMineTastesGoodPrettySmellsGoodMINE_

 

The thoughts tangle with his own, his will and the other’s mixing and he finds his mouth opening eager and pliant. It’s been a very long time since someone kissed him, since someone reflected desire back to him, and Charles is for a moment swept up in the knot of the other man’s lust.

 

But when a thick thigh slides between his own, pushing at his swelling cock, his mind separates from the tangle and he returns back to himself along with awareness of the horror of what is unfolding.

 

He snatches his head away, trying to ignore the teeth and tongue that move to his throat instead, languidly licking up the tracks of blood still dripping there. He grits his teeth and says, “No! No, please. Please.” His voice is rough and he feels tears pricking at his eyes.

 

To his surprise, the soft nips at his neck stop.

 

“Please don’t do this, I’m begging you,” Charles continues, aware that all the stress from the last several minutes is creeping into his voice and he feels a sob building in his throat.

 

The man above him jerks back, not releasing Charles’ hands, but no longer sucking or biting at his throat either. The grip on his wrists tightens, and Charles grits his teeth against the pain until he can’t anymore, giving a soft, wounded cry as the bones in them grind together.

 

And then he’s free, the man wrenching away as if he were burned. Charles scrambles back, putting space between them but making no move to run, knowing his shaking legs likely won’t carry him at this point anyway.

 

The pulsing red snarl changes, flaring up and then shrinking as the man stares wildly at him. He seems to be gathering himself for another pounce. Charles eyes widen and he makes a move to scoot back, but this only draws a warning snarl and another red flare across his mind.“ _Don’t_ ,” the man warns, his voice as rough and gravely as his appearance would lead one to believe.

 

But he makes no more move towards Charles, though the inaction is an obvious struggle. The pair stare at each other, Charles watching as the man wrestles with himself, his eyes showing more and more warm brown as each minute ticks by.

 

Finally, after what seems an interminable amount of time, the red pulse has died away and the other man looks up to him and says, “Don't worry kid. I ain't going to hurt you now.”

 

Charles is still shivering, his breath still coming in short, sharp gasps.There's blood around the other man's mouth and face, and Charles can taste it in his own mouth and feel it on his own face as well. The adrenaline crash catches him off guard and suddenly he is sobbing violently, his breathing off cadence and he’s fairly certain he’s about to hyperventilate and pass out.

 

He hears the other man say, “Shit,” before he’s rotated and pulled backwards, his back pressed to the solid chest behind him. “I’m sorry. C’mon, breathe with me. That’s it, you’re all right.” Thick arms circle him gently and Charles receives another shock when he notices the blood from where he bit the man’s arm earlier is still there, but the wound is far smaller than it should be.

 

*****

 

Charles sits on a stool by the fire, a thin blanket wrapped around his shoulders as he watches the mountain of a man moving around his tiny cabin. He is broad and heavy, easy strength apparent in his movements. He radiates an animalistic grace, and Charles finds himself grudgingly appreciative of his attractiveness.

 

He had put his shirt back on - thank goodness, Charles thought - but there were streaks of blood here and there on the white cotton, darkening as the blood dried.

 

Blood from a wound that no longer existed.

 

A far as strange days went, this one was quickly moving into the higher rankings, and Charles Xavier had had some very strange days indeed.

 

The man - Logan Howlett, call me Logan - had insisted on making sure Charles made it home safely. He had even had the gall to laugh when Charles had bristled that the only reason he hadn’t been safe was Logan himself.

 

“Guilty as charged,” he’d gruffed out with that deep, rumbly voice. “Which is why I need to take responsibility.”

 

At that, he had pulled a cigar from somewhere, though it looked more than a bit flattened - which Charles had been slightly vindictively happy about - and whipped his shirt off his head to wipe the blood from Charles face and neck.

 

Charles had frozen, granted a view of far more masculine charms that he was mentally prepared to deal with in his current state. Snatching the shirt from Logan, he had wiped himself as best he could while he cast his eyes anywhere but at the massive chest and dark smatterings of hair that graced it, sliding down below breeches that sat far too low on the taller man’s hips.

 

He had ripped his eyes away, just as Logan had said, “Ready to go when you are,” with more than a small hint of suggestiveness.

 

Charles had merely replied stonily, “You made me lose my rabbits.”

 

Snorting laughter had answered him before Logan had sniffed the air, walking a short distance away and leaned down to dig through some nearby tall grass that hadn’t been trampled in their earlier struggles. More sniffing and he was moving the opposite direction, pulling up Charles’ small bag that contained his wild root vegetables, which Charles had forgotten about.

 

Just to be obstinate, Charles had glowered at him, and marched towards the spot where he had been planning to pick mushrooms before his morning had been shot to hell. More laughter had followed him, but so had the large man, saying nothing and merely holding the bag open as Charles gathered mushrooms, stuffing them in with perhaps considerably more gusto than was really needed.

 

Which had led to now: Charles sitting by the fire, having watched the man make quick work of preparing the rabbits, roots, and mushrooms and who was now moving about the small space, sniffing and inspecting things. Charles just watched him, eyes tracking his movements, only protesting with a small noise when he picked up one of his precious few books. Logan gave him an odd look, but had replaced the book gently enough before he turned back to the pan resting over the coals.

 

They ate in silence, Charles grudgingly surprised by how good the food was. He still frowned and bit back saying ‘thank you’ though doing so was bad manners.

 

So was attacking and molesting someone in the woods.

 

Logan took both their plates when they had finished eating, washing them off in the small basin of water that Charles kept for such things. He put them back on the little shelf he had found them on and sat back on the floor next to the fire.

 

Charles only had the one chair after all.

 

“So,” Logan started, sucking his teeth a bit before another cigar emerged, “What’s your story?”

 

Charles just stared at him some more before he stood and moved towards the tiny can of tea he had splurged on a few weeks ago at the market. It was a luxury now, but he thought that if today wasn’t a day that deserved a decent cup of tea, then never a day was. Logan radiated quiet amusement as he watched him go about making it, but he kept his mouth shut.

 

Several minutes later, cup of tea in hand, Charles sat back on the stool and met intense mahogany eyes. “What makes you think I have a story.”

 

Logan arched one eyebrow.

 

“A couple hours ago you got attacked in the woods by a crazy person who healed right before your eyes. You let him follow you home and shared your dinner dinner with him. Now, you’re sitting there sipping a crappy cup of tea like it’s the best thing you’ve ever tasted. But you're not in hysterics, which is what normally happens.”

 

“Ambush a lot of people in the woods, do you?” Charles said, tone as dry as old toast.

 

He wasn’t sure who was more surprised at his acerbic tone, himself or Logan. It had been a long time since he had spoken so much with another person, and he was a little shocked that his old sarcastic humor was resurfacing.

 

The small smirk on Logan's face indicated he wasn't offended. “You’d be surprised. Or, maybe you wouldn't. Anyway back to why I know you gotta have a story.”

 

Here he paused, dragging his eyes up and down Charles, but it was in an accesing way. “Your boots are good quality, but they're old.That book over there you didn’t want me pawing at is a first edition, plus no amount of roughing it is gonna hide all that cultured speech you got going on, or the way you hold yourself.”

 

He was more observant than Charles expected, he’d give him that. He sipped his tea and answered, “Lots of people start out wealthy and then end up destitute. Poor investments, bad luck, acts of god. As for the other, perhaps I'm made of sterner stuff than most.”

 

“Maybe.” Logan was rubbing his jaw, his fingers rasping through the hair there as he looked up at Charles. “But you knew I was there.”

 

“I don’t know what you mean,” Charles said, sipping his tea again and willing his heart to quiet. Of course he knew what Logan was talking about; the warnings from the animals in the forest, the red snarl of his presence that had sent Charles sprinting across the clearing before he should have had any indication of where the man was hiding.

 

“You’re not a very good liar.”

 

“There are worse things to be bad at.”

 

“How’d you know I was there?” Logan asked leaning towards him, “No one ever knows.”

 

Charles thinks about lying some more; the man can’t force him to tell. Or at least, he seems like he wouldn't, in spite of the circumstances of their first meeting.

 

But oddly enough, Logan’s mind is blessedly quiet to him, unlike most everyone else he had encountered since the accident. He didn’t know if it was part of what made Logan different, or if he was just naturally good at shielding his thoughts. There were those types even in humans, pockets of whispers in screeching streets.

 

Charles hasn’t actually had occasion to share his story with anyone before, and even if he had, it wasn’t as if anyone would believe him. He finishes the last of his tea, turning the delicate porcelain on its matching saucer. A relic from another time. Another life.

 

“I’m a telepath.”

 

Logan let’s out a low whistle. “You can read minds?”

 

“That is what telepaths do.”

 

At this Logan changes, nothing obvious, but the air is charged with a new tension. Carefully he asks, “And you read my mind? Out in the woods?”

 

Charles looks back into his eyes and says, “No.”

 

“But you said-” He starts, but Charles cuts him off.

 

“I saw flashes, more like impressions of intent, vague glimpses of feeling. From the animals in the forest first, then from you.”

 

“So you can’t read minds?”

 

“I can, in a way.”

 

“Alright, you’re confusing the hell out of me, bub.”

 

With a sigh Charles stands and rinses off his cup and saucer, setting them gently next to his few meager belongings of significance. He turns back, but stays standing where he is, looking at the burning embers in his little fireplace.

 

“Once, I could read minds, see memories, sift through pain and heartache and help to ease it. I could pinpoint a person in a city, a country even, by jumping from person to person with only a thought of intent. I could make someone forget they ever saw me or anything else I wanted to erase, or plant myself as their closest friend and confidant, shape their mind into whatever I could imagine.” He stopped looking back into Logan’s eyes, noting the man was just regarding him steadily before he pushed on. “I could kill one hundred men, armed to the teeth, at fifty paces just by reaching into the place in their brain that told their heart to beat and telling it, ‘ _stop_.’”

 

“Did you?” The way the question was asked, no judgement, no horror or disgust, no fear, made Charles bottom lip quiver.

 

An old, deep pain flared across his features as Charles whispered, “Not quite one hundred men.”

 

Eighty seven. A number he could never forget. A massive number, and yet he’d done it with almost no thought at all considering the two people he had weighed against the weight of those eighty seven men.

 

Logan nodded not even blinking at Charles’ admission of having killed, “And now?”

 

Charles smiled without humor. “Now? Now I can only hear the inane and incessant chatter that skirts across people's minds every second. If I’m touching bare skin, it’s worse. For all that I could do before, now I can barely shield myself from the local dairy maid. It’s maddening, which is why everyone in town thinks I’m mad. The only good thing is that my range is short, so at least I can live in silence if I live away from others. I’ve no control over it anymore.”

 

Logan gave a thoughtful grunt. “I’m guessing whatever happened to your powers is the same reason you ain’t living the high life anymore.”

 

“You’d be right.”

 

“I’m also guessing you ain’t ready to tell me that part.”

 

“Your capacity for deduction is astounding.”

 

Logan laughs at his biting tone, shaking his head and rising.

 

“Fair enough, princess. Now pack your shit, you’re moving in with me.”

 

Charles brain screeches to a halt. He’d just admitted he was a murderer, for god’s sake, and the man hadn’t done so much as bat an eyelash. He is equally beguiled and bewildered as he whirls on Logan with, “And why in the _hell_ will I be doing that?”

 

“Because, this land belongs to me, this hovel included, and you’re a squatter. Plus, I’ve taken a shine to you, you’ve got a mouth on you. And a surprising amount of backbone.”

 

“I don’t want your charity,” Charles snarls.

 

“Good. ‘Cause I ain’t offering any. You can earn your keep.”

 

For a moment, Charles flounders at the sensual tone, and then he grows white hot angry.

 

“If you think for one second you can bully me into your bed, I’m going to give that healing ability of yours a run for its money,” he hisses.

 

“Oh Charles, you’ve got a dirty mind. I just meant I need someone with brains to help me out with paperwork and such.” But Logan is looking at him with lowered brows, and his mouth is curved in a grin that says Charles took the bait just like he’d hoped.

 

Charles flushes hot with embarrassment. He trails helplessly after the man as Logan saunters around the room, somehow gathering exactly the right things that Charles would want to take with him.

 

“‘Sides, I like to bully my partners _in_ bed, not _into_ bed. And you don’t have to worry about a repeat of our little forest mishap,” He turns to Charles flashing a grin full of teeth and adds, “Unless you want.”

 

Charles flushes again, only it’s not purely in embarrassment.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles settles into the Manor. He is happy to find himself useful and tackles the task given to him by Logan with enthusiasm.
> 
> Perhaps too much enthusiasm.

Of Meetings in Meadows and Mending of Hearts

By RomancebyFaye

 

Chapter Two

 

 

* * *

 

The great house, mansion really, was much as Charles remembered it when he had sought it out a few years ago; though now the windows were open and the landscape appeared to be in the stages of becoming less unkempt. He could see evidence of activity around the grounds, but no one crossed their path directly.

 

They swept through the large doors of the main entrance, Charles following Logan, his eyes wandering over rich wood grain and stately marble floors. The floors shined from an obvious recent polishing, but the banisters on the staircase and the carvings in the rest of the woodwork have only had a cursory cleaning. The place was in an organized disorder; furniture covered in dusty cloth waiting in the main hall to be uncovered, polished and dusted. The paintings on the wall are covered in the same cloth and it’s obvious the house is in the middle of recovering from a long time of disuse.

 

Charles spares only a moment to look around before he follows Logan up the the wide staircase.  They turn right once they reach the top, following a wing down a long hall full of closed doors until they reach the very end. Logan turns to look at Charles as he pushes the door open, “This is where you'll be staying.”

 

There's a grand window to his right, heavy blue drapes that look recently laundered pulled back to show the front view of the grounds. The window is flanked on each side by bookcases built right into the wall. There's a small desk for writing and reading that would make good use of the natural lighting from the window. To the far left is an enormous bed, the linens and duvet done in blue and cream and surrounded by matching drapes that are tied back to the four posters.  There's another door past the great window Charles knows leads to the ensuite.

 

It only takes Charles a moment to realize he's been set up in the master room.  

 

“I can't stay in here,” he protests.

 

“Don’t like blue? We can change it to whatever you want.”

 

Charles spluttered, “That’s not what I mean and you know it, this room is meant for the master of the house.”

 

Logan just shrugs. “I’ve already picked my room. And this one’s been cleaned already too, since Madge thought I’d want to stay in here, which I don’t.”

 

“But,” Charles begins, only to be cut off by Logan.

 

“If you really don’t like it, I’ll let you pick another, but if you're just tryin’ to be difficult because you think it's against some shitty social norm for you to stay here, then I ain’t listening.”

 

“But it’s - what will people think?”

 

Logan turns to him, “What did I just say? I didn't hear anything in there about the room, so like I said, I ain't listening.”

 

With that he deposits the bag of Charles items gently on the small desk. The bag he had insisted on carrying their considerable trek back to the great house.

 

With a jerk of his head Logan indicated that Charles should follow him once more. They exit the room, Charles silent and bewildered as they descend the staircase, turning down another long hall once they reached the bottom. They moved farther into the back of the house and Charles smells the unmistakable scent of fresh baking bread. It was obvious why when Logan shoved a door aside and they enter the kitchens.

 

There was a plump woman bustling around, but she stopped and turned towards them when they entered.  Charles had had time to recover from the events of the morning and had spent time bracing his shields on the long walk here. Still he flinched when the woman turned to regard him with sharp eyes.

 

Whatever he had expected, it wasn't for her to turn and slap Logan hard on his arm.

 

“Master Howlett,” she exclaimed, “I thought you went hunting for deer, not a half-starved young man.”

 

Charles had no time to react before the woman had bundled him into a chair at a rough hewn wood table, worn smooth with years use and shiny from a recent oiling. Charles could still smell hints of grape seed. A wave of fond concern swept over his mind as the woman fussed around him. Soft thoughts of _too skinny_ and _handsome_ and _fatten him up poor dear_ buffeted him before a heaping plate of fresh bread, cheese and fruit was placed in front of him. A cup of wine was brought to sit near his hand.

 

He blinked at the food, such ease at being granted sustenance long since forgotten, and eyed the wine warily. He hadn’t had any sort of spirit in a long time. He’d not had so much kindness in far longer, and he cursed himself as he felt a welling pinch in the back of his throat. Logan would think him a weak, wilting thing if he started crying again.

 

Not that he cared with Logan thought.

 

He swallowed against the tears, taking a sip from his cup. To his surprise, Logan dragged a chair up right next to him and stole a piece of cheese from his plate with a grin.

 

“Sorry Madge, I’ll get you some venison next time.”

 

She laughed, stirring one of the pots on the stove and tossed over her shoulder, “I hope it has more meat on its bones than this young thing. What’s your name, child?”

 

He knew she was being kind, for the past years had left him looking older than he was. Still, he suspected she would consider anyone under forty as young.

 

“Charles Xavier, ma’am.”

 

She turned to him then, her eyebrows raised. “Goodness, you’ve a proper tongue in your head don’t you?”

 

Logan laughed, “Found me a real gentlemen this time.”

 

“You wouldn’t know it from the state of his clothes. He could do with a trim and a shave, too. I’ll have Hank draw a bath for you, dear. I’m sure there’s an extra razor and kit around somewhere, too.”

 

“I’ll help you scrub your back if you want,” Logan said with a feral grin and waggling eyebrows, only to be slapped in the face with a very well aimed - and wet - towel.

 

Charles’ mouth fell open in shock as he watched water droplets arch back with the force of the blow, splattering on the floor and table and dripping down Logan’s ruined shirt .

 

“You leave Master Charles be, you beast. I can tell he’s far too good for the likes of you and I’ve only just met him.”

 

Logan just peeled the towel from his face with a laugh. “Can’t argue with you there Madge, but then I ain’t ever been too good at following the rules.”

 

Charles gingerly sipped his wine, willing the rising flush on his face to _go away already_. The soft teasing and banter was something near alien to him after so long alone.

 

He ate his food slowly, wondering at his change of fortune and reminding himself not to get too comfortable. Everyone always left him in the end, and he was sure Logan would tire of teasing him eventually. Still, if he could prove his adeptness at record keeping and make himself useful, perhaps he could make a home here.

 

Logan and Madge bantered back and forth as the food on his plate grew less and less, Logan stealing small bites here and there, until the food was gone.

 

A thought occurred to him, out of the blue.

 

“You were hunting deer?”

 

Logan turned to him, “Yeah?” Amusement was evident in his eyes and Charles realized he had spoken out of nowhere.

 

“But, you had nothing to hunt them with - no gun. Did you leave it in the woods somewhere?”

 

Tension snaked along his mind, but it was coming from Madge. He couldn’t hear words, surprisingly, but there was the impression of - not fear, not exactly - but more of bracing herself.

 

“I got a few party tricks you ain’t seen yet,” Logan said, unconcerned.

 

The tension from Madge eased back and Charles realized she must know Logan is a mutant.

 

Charles just turned towards Logan, slightly confused as he watched him scoot his chair back, moving to sit at a direct angle from Charles. He raised his right hand in the air and gave his fingers a little rippling wiggle before making a fist. With a soft, _snikt,_ three long claws erupted from between his knuckles, startling Charles into jumping so violently he would have fallen out of his seat if Logan’s left hand hadn’t steadied him.

 

After a few long, silent seconds Charles asked, “Can I touch them?”

 

If Logan was startled by the question, he didn't show it. Instead he extends his right hand so  Charles could turn it this way and that. He was faintly aware Madge has left the room, saying something about a bath and taking with her the presence of her mind. The quietness that came with her departure allowed Charles to concentrate fully on the fascinating new piece of Logan he has discovered. He raised his fingers, carefully touching the claws.

 

They were bone, deadly sharp at the tips and along the underneath, widening slightly down their length until they ran into flesh. He traced along their faint curve with wonder, following the arch down until his finger rested on broad knuckles. Charles nibbled his bottom lip nervously, wondering if he should continue.

 

He looked up slowly to see Logan staring at him from very close with an oddly blank expression. His tiny nod told Charles he could carry on.

 

Carefully, he followed the bumps of Logan's knuckles, pressing gently, feeling the firmness of the bone claws where they are housed beneath the skin. Grasping softly with both hands, he rotated the wrist, feeling tendons there there would be absent from his own. He sank his thumbs into the wide palm, rolling along the the bones he could feel there.

 

“Can you retract them?” Charles asked, not brave enough to look back at the other man's face, nor willing to let this chance escape him, though he thought perhaps he should.

 

With a soft grunt, the blades sink back, slowly disappearing until the only thing left is the split skin between Logan's knuckles healing right before his eyes.

 

Under the pressure of Charles maneuvering, the wrist easily rotated, no apparent loss of movement from the claws evident. He traced over the tendons on the back of Logan’s hand, stopping to rest the pad of his index finger between the first and second knuckle. He pressed lightly, overcome with an insane urge to lick there.

 

Above him Logan growled. Charles eyes snapped up and he could see the man’s nostrils flare before he said softly, “Careful there, Charles.”

 

He gulped, Logan’s eyes following the movement of his throat before he brought up his free hand and encircled Charles right wrist, his large hand warm where it touched the skin. He matched the move with his right, capturing Charles other wrist and bringing them down between them as he leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. With a soft brush of his thumbs across the tops of Charles wrists, he let him go.

 

And the moment was over.

 

Logan stood, “Let me show you the mess I’m hoping you can help clean up.”

 

They exited the kitchen and walked through the house once more. After a few turns, Logan stopped in front of a pair of wooden doors. He turned to Charles and said, “Brace yourself,”  before pushing them open theatrically. The doors revealed a large study, complete with a massive desk, a huge fireplace, and walls lined with bookshelves and cabinets. He thought it might be very attractive, though it was hard to tell from all the boxes piled in the room. And the heavy layer of grime.

 

There were stacks of papers strewn everywhere.

 

“Good Lord,” Charles breathed as he looked at the mess. He wandered a little ways past the threshold, careful not to disturb any boxes that look to be stacked rather precariously. The view didn't improve the farther in he walked. Logan just watched from his place leaning against the door jamb.

 

“I told you you'd be earning your keep.”

 

“How did you let it get like this?” Charles asked, bewildered.

 

“I didn't,” Logan answered with a hint of gruff indignation. When Charles turned to look at him, confusion in his eyes, Logan clarified, “I was awarded this place for exceptional service in the recent war.” There was a hardness in Logan’s voice when he mentioned the war and a sharp sarcasm when he said ‘exceptional service’. It was a small enough revelation, but the implications behind it were heavy. Charles could only imagine the things Logan had probably seen.

 

“It didn't seem any hardship for the guy to part with it. I figured out why when I got here. The place has got good bones, but it needs a lot of work. I want to get it back into good shape, get it back to functioning and supporting itself, turning a profit. Maybe set up some farmland, put some good people to work. There's more than enough room for cattle and horses, and it wouldn't hurt to thin out the woods a bit for timber.”

 

He pushed off the doorway and walked to stand beside Charles, looking at the room with an irritated expression. “But before I do any of that, I need to know I'm working with, and for me to know that, this room right here needs to be in order. I saw what kind of books you had when I packed them up, I know you got more brains than most people. I've seen too much to believe in coincidence, and bumping into you out in the woods here...well.”

 

“But,” Charles said, shaking his head in disbelief, “you don't even know me. Not really.”

 

“I know enough, more than I'm betting you've told anybody else. ‘Sides my instincts are rarely wrong, and they're telling me I couldn't do better than you. Still, I can't force you if you don't want to stay.”

 

Charles looked around the room, the thought of being needed and useful tempting him more than any offer Logan could have made. “It will take me forever to do this by myself,” Charles said by way of answering.

 

It was as good as acceptance and a wide grin split Logan's face. “You won't have to.” He turned and walked to the door, bellowing “Hank!” loud enough Charles ears rang a bit. A startlingly short time later a gangly young man with spectacles showed up, breathing as if he had sprinted the whole way - which he probably had.

 

“This is Charles Xavier, he's going to get the records in order. From now on you're to do whatever he tells you.” Logan’s voice was gruff, none of the teasing or gentleness he had shown Charles present.

 

The young man nodded at Logan and extended his hand with a soft, “Hank McCoy, sir.” Charles braced his shields, offering his own hand.

 

“How do you do, Hank. Please, call me Charles,” he answered, suddenly aware of his disheveled appearance and old clothes as Hank stepped back and looked him over, trying and failing to be subtle in doing so. His thoughts were a jumble of timid interest and curiosity. There was a trembling relief there and a thought of _thank god I don't have to sort this out myself_ that told Charles to whom his task had originally been assigned. There was also a buzz of activity roiling beneath the surface that implied fierce intelligence

 

Though his next words belied such.

 

“Um,” the young man started, blushing as he stammered out, “I-I have some clothes you can borrow, if you want - I mean, um...Madge told me you might need some after you bathe. Just until-until you can get your own...or get some new ones…”

 

Charles’ shame at having the terrible state of his clothing remarked upon was lessened by the near hilarious awkwardness of Hank’s offer. He was about to politely take him up on it before he was interrupted by Logan saying, “He won't need your damn clothes, he can borrow mine. Now go see if Madge needs help in the kitchen.”

 

“Yes, sir!” Hank exclaimed, as he darted out of the room with as much energy as he had entered.

 

Charles just stood there as Logan chuckled after the young man was gone, pretending the declaration Charles would be wearing Logan’s clothes hadn’t happened.

 

“Why were you so short with him?”

 

“Believe it or not, that’s how I am normally. Something about you brings out my softer side.” The lascivious grin was meant for effect and Charles rolled his eyes. “That one was more timid than a church mouse when I found him, seemed to respond better to barked orders than any soft words, at least from me. He’s whip crack smart though, and he’s got a mean punch and turns blue and fuzzy if you make him angry.”

 

With that Logan turned to leave the room.

 

Charles registered the last few words he had spoken and shouted “ _What?!_ ”, as he ran after his retreating form.

 

*****

 

Charles had always been careful about his hygiene, but there was only so much one can do without a real bathtub. When Logan had led him back to his room and into the adjoining ensuite,  Charles had felt a rush of giddy excitement at the tub full of steaming water. He'd nearly started stripping his clothes off before he remembered Logan was still in the room. When he turned to him with a pointed look Logan exited with an exaggerated sigh of disappointment.

 

The bath was amazing.     

 

Charles lathered his washcloth liberally and scrubbed himself until his skin was pink and tender. He did the same for his hair, sighing in rapturous enjoyment at being able to completely submerge his head. He didn't exit the tub until the water was almost cold and his fingers and toes were wrinkly. He rubbed at his hair with one of the fluffy towels that had been left for him, wrapping the other around his waist as he walked to the mirror that ran the length of the wall  above a marble counter. Resting on the counter was a shave kit that looked fairly new. He took up the shaving brush and mug and went to work, setting a thick lather on his overgrown whiskers.

 

When he was finished, his jaw was smoother than it had been in years. He stared at his reflection, hardly recognizing himself. Now that he was clean and presentable, he looked years younger than before his bath. If it weren't for the worn look in his blue eyes, and the abiding gauntness that came from years without easy food, Charles thought he might have looked even younger.

 

True to his word Logan, had left some of his clothes on the bed. Charles pulled them on, thankful to have something besides his old clothes to change into now that he was fresh from bathing.

 

Unsurprisingly, the breeches were too long and the shirtsleeves hung past his fingers. Everything was a bit too loose - Charles felt like a child in an adult's clothes - but they were serviceable enough and in far better condition than his own. And if he gave them a guilty sniff because they smelled like Logan, no one was the wiser. There weren't any boots, and he doubted very much that Logan’s or Hank’s would fit him, but there was a pair of thick woolen socks.  He was pulling them on when there was a knock at the door.

 

When Charles pulled the door open, Logan was waiting on the other side. The other man had done his own share of cleaning up, though he hadn’t shaved. His clothes fit him perfectly, showing off the thickness of his chest and thighs. Not that Charles was looking. His stained shirt from before was replaced with a pristine white one and he had added a simple waistcoat.

 

He appeared as if he had been poised to speak but instead stood there in silence, his mouth slightly parted as he looked Charles up and down. Charles squirmed under the intensity, aware of his ill fitting borrowed clothes and fidgeting with the edge of sleeves that extended past his fingers.  

 

Discomfitted with the scrutiny, he asked, “Does it look all right? I don’t look silly do I?”

 

Logan barked out a laugh with an incredulous, “Are you kidding me?”

 

A familiar red pulse brushed against his mind along with a clear thought of _fucking beautiful_.

 

When Charles just stared at him, equally incredulous and feeling heat rise in his face, Logan asked, “Heard that one, did you?” before giving his head a sharp shake and stepping back. He gestured with his arm for Charles to join him, letting out a rough, “Dinner.”

 

As they made their way to yet another new part of the house, Logan kept looking down at him out of the corner of his eye. Charles licked and nibbled on his bottom lip nervously, unaware of the effect it was having on the man next to him.

 

They didn't talk as they walked; Charles absorbed in his own thoughts as he was. It wasn't as if he thought he was bad looking, per se, but he didn’t understand Logan’s attraction. The man was gorgeous, if a bit rough, plus he was wealthy, and likely on his way to being more so. He could have anyone he wanted, Charles was sure. Added to all this was the strange fact he’d been kinder to Charles than anyone had in years, perhaps even before.

 

Even when he’d been in an animalistic frenzy in the forest, he hadn’t actually _hurt_ Charles.

 

But Charles couldn't help but remember another life when someone had looked at him with a matching intensity in the beginning. Someone he had loved with a fierceness so strong it nearly destroyed him when he had been abandoned. Someone who, through a mocking example of life's cruel irony, he knew had loved him back because his abilities had allowed him to see it for himself. He had been left behind anyways.

 

Without realizing what he was doing, he brought his hand to the back of his head tracing along the hidden scar there. It would always be with him, serving as a reminder of his past. The thought of trusting someone enough to allow them to wound him in such a way again was frightening.

 

Besides, Logan had only known him for a day, and his interest was sure to wear off.

 

*****

 

His interest didn’t wear off.

 

It always there just under the surface of their day to day interactions. Logan's gruff exterior with everyone else never bled over to him. He was protective, too. Which was something of a novelty to Charles, as he had been cast in the role of protector most of his life. Not that it had worked out well for him in the end.

 

He supposed it shouldn't have surprised him when it turned out the man took great pleasure in providing for Charles as well.

 

Within the first few days, Logan had arranged for a tailor to come to the house to set Charles up with a new wardrobe. Logan had insisted on being present at the fitting, much to Charles’ chagrin. It was obvious, even without telepathy, the tailor thought he and Logan were in a relationship. Charles blushed and stammered but Logan made no move to correct the man, instead he subtly encouraged the misconception by agreeing whenever the tailor made remarks of Charles attributes.

 

Charles was also told to give Hank a list of anything he might need as far as personal effects, and in a remarkable moment of insight from Logan, had been threatened to be provided with much more if he didn't choose anything. He still wound up with far more than he had requested.

 

If he wasn't being paid a proper salary for his job, Charles might feel like a kept man.

 

Or a husband.

 

He had pushed that thought firmly away.

 

He was _not_ a kept man, so while he was waiting for the supplies he had ordered to use in organizing all the old records, he had worked to get the study into condition that was fit to operate in. He and Hank armed themselves with handkerchiefs tied across their faces to help keep out the dust, along with piles of old rags and a homemade cleaner from Madge that frankly smelled amazing. Hank's unique feet - which he was a bit embarrassed about showing Charles in the beginning - allowed him to climb and clean the top half of the room with ease while Charles focused on the bottom. It had taken two full days, and they'd both been filthy afterwards.

 

Unable to do anything further until his order for the study arrived, he began tackling other tasks  throughout the manor, exploring a bit as he went. He found a library, though it was sadly empty of books, but just as desperately in need of cleaning as the study had been. He tackled the task all by himself.  After it was cleaned  he enlisted the help of Hank to move some of the newly polished furniture and a rug stolen from one of the empty bedrooms into the room. He had been excited to share his discovery with Logan, who had smiled at him indulgently and wiped some dust off Charles’ nose.

 

Logan worked, too. He had hired several men to help during the day with immediate repairs and renovations that were needed around the manor. Charles didn’t see him much during the day - both of them being busy and Charles always careful to not get caught in a group of people since he couldn't protect his mind very well -  but when he did, there was always a fond smile or look from the other man. The first weeks they ate dinner together each night, Hank and Madge joining them occasionally when it wasn’t too late in the evening. They would retire to the newly cleaned library sometimes, Charles reading a book he had borrowed from Hank while Logan tinkered with an old mantle clock he had found. Sometimes they would chat about their day, but mostly they enjoyed a companionable silence, each absorbed in their own activities but grateful for the company nonetheless.

 

But that stopped when the supplies for the records came in and Charles dove into wrestling them into order. He'd felt a little guilty about it, since it meant he hardly spent time with Logan anymore, but Logan never said anything.

 

Until he did.

 

Charles had been sorting out the mess of records for _weeks_ , with the invaluable help of Hank who turned out to be incredibly intelligent. They spent hours and hours in the room, Charles working from dawn until late in the night even after Hank fell asleep on the smaller desk they had dragged in for him. Charles barely stopped to eat; he was used to going without much from his years living alone. Now he only stopped while working because Hank would push a plate of food at him every so often, hovering nervously but stubbornly until Charles at least ate a little before he'd leave him alone.

 

Today he was doing just that, but Charles had found a particularly interesting set of records that contained fascinating data about the original building and mapping of the mansion. The new information also including exact property lines that Logan had been looking for in particular. When Hank had set the plate on top of Charles’ still-wet notes, he had pointedly pushed it aside with now always ink-stained fingers, ignoring Hank even when the young man badgered him. In a rare huff of exasperation, Hank exited the room, leaving Charles in peace.

 

Or so he thought. Instead, Hank had returned, trailing along behind a fuming Logan.

 

Sweat was sticking his shirt to his chest - Hank must have found him outside working - and his arms were crossed and his eyes narrowed in what Charles had learned to recognise as his not-giving-in stance. He'd seen it the first time when he tried to insist on paying for the clothes Logan had had made especially for him.

 

“What's this I hear about you not eating?”

 

Charles adopted his best look of innocence; widening his eyes and looking up at Logan with a small smile. That worked sometimes.

 

Logan just rumbled out, “I ain’t falling for it,” and narrowed his eyes further.

 

Thwarted, Charles turned his ire to the figure currently hiding behind Logan, shouting _“Traitor!”_  at the young man.

 

Hank peeked around the broad frame in front of him. If Charles weren't angry at him, the sight would be amusing since Hank was the same height as Logan, actually bit taller.

 

“You don’t eat enough!,” Hank shouted back.

 

Charles glowered and petulantly sank down in his comfy chair. “I’m not hungry,” he answered through clenched teeth.

 

“Your stomach was growling,” Hank accused, heaping upon his betrayal. When he peeked over Logan’s shoulder and saw the murderous look on Charles’ face, he turned and ran from the room.

 

Logan stayed put, arms still crossed, eyes still narrowed under bushy brows. Charles was fully aware he was pouting, but he didn’t much care as he glared at Logan across the desk.

 

“I didn't bring you here or give you this job so you could work yourself to death.” Logan’s voice was angry, something that was never directed at Charles; but Charles was indignant, resentful of Hank having tattled on him like he were a naughty schoolboy. It made him mouthy.

 

“Don't be melodramatic,” Charles groused. “Skipping a meal or two is hardly going to kill me.”

 

He immediately wondered at the wisdom of his words as Logan silently rounded the desk, checked power and anger radiating in his prowling glide. Blue eyes widened genuinely now as Charles shrank farther back in his chair as Logan’s broad hands moved in, taking the space of the armrests. His heart hammered wildly as Logan crowded into his space, close enough that there were mere centimeters between their faces, close enough that he couldn’t help but smell the distinct scent that Logan put off - a mixture of tobacco smoke and something faintly yet pleasingly animal like - now amplified from his time working outside in the sun.

 

His gaze was thunderous and his voice brooked no argument.

 

“Now you listen to me Charles Xavier and you listen good: You’re gonna eat three meals a day so long as I’m breathing. There's ain't a single thing in this room that's so important you can't stop for long enough to eat a damn decent meal. I swore when I brought you here the first thing I was going to do was make sure you weren't half starved anymore. Hell, you don’t even have dinner with me now, and I know you ain’t getting anything from the kitchen ‘cause I talked to Madge. And don't think for a second I don't know you've been working in here ‘til all hours of the morning.

 

“What the hell are you tryin’ to do? Work yourself into the ground? All that stops _right now_ if I have to come in here every day and feed you myself, or drag you out at a decent hour and tie you to the bed to make sure you sleep.”

 

Charles doesn't mean to whimper, he really, _really_ doesn't, but the latter choice of words flashes a simmering image across his brain. An image he can't blame anyone else for being in his head. It feels entirely inappropriate to respond in such a way to Logan's tirade, but perhaps it's the fierce meaning behind the words, the care evident so plainly in the anger.

 

No one had ever bothered to stop Charles from working himself into the ground before.

 

The room goes silent at the soft sound. Logan stays staring down at him, his irises rapidly giving way to the creeping darkness of pupil. If the tingle spreading out from his spine is anything to go by, Charles is pretty sure his are doing the same.

 

Logan’s scowl slowly morphs to an extremely toothy grin. It's somehow more terrifying, if in a different way.

 

The huge room suddenly seems quite too small.

 

“Now ain’t that interesting.” His voice is a world away from only moments before, pitched low and intimate, gravelly in a way that makes Charles’ skin prickle and other parts twitch.

 

“I-I’m not,” Charles tries to explain, “That wasn’t…”

 

He trails off as his denial is met with an arched brow. “Really? Still think you can hide from me? With that big brain of yours I thought you would have figured it out by now.”

 

“Figured out what?,” Charles manages to say, more to keep from sitting there silent than anything else.

 

“ _That I can smell you_.”

 

Logan's eyes fall closed and he takes a long, deep breath. When he opens them again, Charles has seen them that way only once before. His mind flashes their first meeting, and an animalistic struggle across a grassy meadow floor. “And right now, you smell fucking _edible_.”

 

He ignores Charles’ gasp at the ragged depth of his voice, continuing on in that same tone that makes the smaller man’s toes curl in his new boots - boots bought for him by Logan.

 

“And believe me when I say, I have every intention of taking a bite, in every meaning of the word.

 

“But you ain’t ready yet.

 

“Until you are, I’m going to take care of you, no matter how long I have to wait. And while I’m waiting, I’m going make sure no one hurts you - even if the one doing the hurting is yourself. I’m gonna to show you I can give you what you don’t think you need, what you don’t _let_ yourself need. What, for whatever reason, you don’t seem to think you deserve.”

 

Logan's voice loses some of its intensity, softening just a bit. He sinks down on his haunches, looking up at Charles now. Slowly, as if he's afraid Charles might startle, he traces the back of his knuckles down a smooth cheek as he continues speaking.

 

“I know he fucked you up good. I can see it, can practically taste it, the fear whatever that piece of shit in your past left you with.”

 

The caress down Charles’ cheek is gone, and Logan's voice takes on it's previous steel once more.

 

“But remember this, Charles, the next time you look at me and think about that bastard: _I. Ain’t. Him_.”

 

With that, he stands, rolling back slowly with the sinewy movements of a jungle cat, leaving Charles quivering and staring wide eyed. The plate of food from the edge of the desk is pushed until it rests right in front of him, a matching cup of cool water moved alongside it.

 

Logan doesn’t say anything else; he just leans against the edge of the desk and watches Charles eat. He doesn’t leave until the plate and the cup are empty.

 

That night, they start having dinner together again.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the part where Logan gets all growly about Charles not taking care of himself is my favorite. It feels odd to say this - since I'm the one who wrote it - but I purr a little every time I read over that passage. I'd be interested to hear if it came across as satisfying to you guys.
> 
> Feel free to comment! They give me life!


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles' and Logan's relationship is evolving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning! Check end notes for specifics.
> 
> Also, this chapter will change the rating to explicit - though it's only for some *ahem* self love at this point.
> 
> Yay!

 

Of Meetings in Meadows and Mending of Hearts

By RomancebyFaye

 

Chapter Three

* * *

 

There's a subtle shift in things after the study incident. After all, Charles can’t really tell himself that Logan isn’t interested now. He is not the kind to speak idly and he has proven himself trustworthy, even if Charles still struggles with seeing others as such. Even without the ability to read Logan's mind, he knows if he denied any interest Logan would pull back. Instead, the declaration of Logan's intentions means Charles can no longer lie to himself about his own growing feelings.

 

Logan's words have their intended effect, for when Charles inevitably compares Erik and Logan, he can hear Logan’s voice in his head, the gruff reminder of  _ I aint him  _ setting the two men in even sharper relief than before. There's no denying the fear is still there - of being abandoned, of being weighed and still found wanting - but Logan’s presence is constant, his attention gentle but unwavering. 

 

Charles will catch him watching sometimes, his eyes full of want and what might be adoration, and at other times when they are talking or eating, a faint pulse of red desire will caress Charles mind. He flushes under the attention at times, remembering Logan looming over him in righteous anger because Charles had dared not to take proper care of himself. He wonders if in those moments Logan is remembering the way Charles reacted during the study, the arousal that frankly caught them  _ both  _ off guard. 

 

There are touches now too, and they warm something gentler than arousal in Charles blood. A brief weight of a large hand in the small of his back when they move around the manor. An occasional brush across his shoulders, lingering but undemanding. And once, he had pushed an errant strand of hair back behind his ear, but Charles had flinched a bit at that, conscious of the hidden scar along his scalp. He had regretted it instantly when Logan had gave him a rueful look and withdrew his hand. Words of apology and explanation had stuck in Charles’ throat until it was too late and Logan had begun speaking of other things.

 

The moment serves to remind Charles there are things they still haven’t talked about, things from his past he still hasn’t found the courage or the right time to say. But Logan had told him he would wait, had promised patience and followed through with demonstrating it as well. So Charles tries to grant himself the same. 

 

Logan makes a point to spend more time with him, continuing to eat dinner with him and resuming their nights in the library. He even succeeds in coaxing Charles out of the study to walk around the grounds a few times. 

 

Once or twice a week Logan will show up in the study around lunch time. Sometimes he'll be carrying two plates and a jug of watered wine, waiting patiently until Charles cleans a space for him to deposit his burdens so they can eat together. Hank always disappears, nodding to Logan with a quiet, ‘Master Howlett’ on his way out the door.

 

Sometimes, if the weather is particularly nice, Logan will have a basket on his arm, stuffed to the brim by Madge. They will find a nice shady spot outside under a leafy old oak tree and have a picnic. 

 

It's during one of these outings that Charles, nerves jangling, slowly scoots next to Logan, whose back is against the tree. At Charles’ movement, he seems to freeze, his words stopping mid sentence when the smaller man snuggles into him. The sound of his own heart is in his ears as he lays his head on Logan's shoulder.

 

For a moment, the air is filled with palpable shock before a rush of warm pleasure and a startlingly intense wash of giddiness tangled with smug pride curl around Charles’ consciousness. The sound Logan makes as he carefully gathers Charles in his arms is so much like a purr that Charles blushes and laughs, smiling wide and burying his face in the broad chest under his cheek in an attempt to hide.

 

“You know,” Logan says, nuzzling his nose along Charles’ temple, “this is the first time I’ve seen you smile -  _ really _ smile. I want to see it more.”

 

The words catch somewhere in the smaller man’s chest and he answers truthfully, “I’ve not had reason to smile in quite some time.”

 

“And you do now?”

 

There was a thread of doubt in the rough voice, enough that Charles’ tilted his head back, locking blue eyes with brown. He reached up, tracking a finger over furrowed brows, smoothing out the lines between them with the gentle pressure of fingertips stained with ink.  

 

“Yes,” he said simply.

 

Logan grinned, bumping their foreheads together and pulling Charles closer still. 

 

“Good.”

 

They stayed that way, cuddled underneath the shade of the old oak tree for a long time.

 

That night Charles does something else he hasn’t done in a very long time. 

 

It’s strange at first, touching himself. He hasn’t done this in more than a perfunctory, physical release in years. Once, he had been a sensual being, passionate, both giving and demanding when he made love. He had been confident and coy in turns, able to use his powers in perfect accord with his physical self. But that part had died at the same time as his abilities, another sacrifice on the altar of heartbreak and circumstance. 

 

But Logan, with his unexpected patience and understanding, was breathing life into those things Charles had thought long dead and lost to him. Waking things that had not stirred in his heart for ages. Healing faultlines between  _ Charles-who-was _ and  _ Charles-who-is _ with his odd, steady gentleness. Making him think that perhaps, after all this time, he could simply become  _ Charles  _ again, and be loved for all his faults and failings as well as his merits.

 

He stretches out naked in his bed, skin still warm and flushed from the steaming water after a long soak in the bath. He closes his eyes, skirting his hands down his chest to roll his nipples gently between his fingers. He teases them to hard peaks before sliding his palms flat over his belly,  which is far less concave that it had been months ago. 

 

He imagines another’s hands as he scrapes his fingernails into the flesh of his thighs, sinking them there and wondering what it might feel like for the sensitive skin to be chaffed by Logan’s beard, bitten by his teeth.

 

His cock twitches, filling further as he finally takes it into his hand. He manipulates the foreskin, dragging it over the plump head and then back, slicking the beads of fluid around and around the head on each pass. He goes slowly, relishing the bloom of desire that courses through his limbs.

 

He shuffles in the linens, rolling onto his side and pulling his left knee up. He licks the fingers of his left hand, pretending they are thicker, longer, as he sucks them and slicks them with saliva.  Once they are wet enough he reaches back and circles his entrance, just pulsing his fingers there as he uses his right to stroke his cock, now fully engorged and aching. 

 

The slide of his index finger into his arse is exquisite, and he pumps slow and shallow, dragging back the memories of sensations he hasn’t felt in years. His turns his head to sink his teeth into the fluff of his pillow, muffling his soft cries further as he pleasures himself, thinking of Logan’s hands on him, his fingers in him. 

 

He envisions it: Logan behind him, the dark hair Charles had seen on their first encounter tickling against his back as his thick fingers work him open. He would be patient, far more patient that Charles is with himself as he forces his finger further, the slight burn reminding him that spit is not adequate lubrication. He’d open him up slow - Charles knows it will probably be torturously slow if Logan’s previous patience is anything to go by. He’d make sure Charles would be completely relaxed and ready before he ever slides his cock inside. 

 

An ancient impulse builds at the base of Charles’ spine at his thoughts, a wash of heat gathering  and accumulating behind his eyelids, in his chest, in the grip of his jerking hand. Scenes of him tangled beneath a driving form flash across his mind, of his legs slung over arms, over shoulders, over hips as he rides, each thrust downward met by the upwards surge of heavy thighs. Visions of his arms wrapped around those broad shoulders, of his arms pinned above his head, his arms supporting his weight while his fingers dig into the linens as his arse is held in place and pounded into.

 

He wonders if Logan would bite him, mark him, if he would growl and groan when they made love. 

 

If he would let out those magnificent bone claws and trace them down Charles spine if he asked. If he begged him to...

 

The thought of it tripped a flare of need in his mind and he came, ecstatic pleasure shorting out his thoughts as he cried out ‘Logan!’ into the pillow. He faintly registered the feeling his own arse fluttering around his finger and ejaculate warm and abundant painting his hand and his sheets as he quivered in the aftermath of orgasm. Limp and exhausted, he removes his finger with a slight wince and rests for a moment, planning to clean himself up after he can catch his breath and trust his legs to carry him.

 

He fell asleep like that, waking the next morning to a mess he tried to rectify with a wet washcloth and only being moderately successful. He left the duvet pulled back to allow the linens to dry from the damp spot left behind by his cleaning efforts.

 

When Logan surprised him by showing up and asking him to breakfast, Charles couldn’t shut his bedroom door fast enough, afraid Logan would spot the state of the bed. In his haste, he wound up farther into Logan’s space than he had anticipated, the cold solid wood of his door at his back a stark contrast to the warm solid presence of last night's fantasies at his front.

 

Logan stared down at him as Charles stammered an apology. And then he grinned, wide and toothy and Charles felt the blood rise to his face as he remembered how well Logan’s sense of smell worked. His suspicions were confirmed by the tone of Logan's voice when he asked, ”Sleep well, Charles?”

 

The rest of his day was intermittently interrupted by thoughts of hazy lust - his brain seemed to have rebooted itself in the areas concerning Charles’ libido. And all of them feature a certain person heavily, just as his nighttime activity had. And each time he found himself blushing at the knowledge of Logan  _ knowing  _ about those activities. About him possibly entertaining mirroring thoughts of his own.

 

When he pleasured himself again that night while thinking of Logan doing the same, he was more careful not to dirty the sheets.

 

It didn’t seem to make a difference when Logan came to collect him for breakfast again, his smile wide and knowing. And more than just a bit smug.

 

*****

 

The pair of them are in the library one evening, Logan once again tinkering with his clock and Charles reading one of the many new books that had suddenly appeared on the bookcases. They each have a tumbler of fine scotch, which Charles had enlisted the help of Madge to procure. He had been adamant the funds used to purchase it were his own and she had only smiled and offered no argument.

 

He had poured himself and Logan a generous amount and offered the glass wordlessly. Logan had accepted it with slight surprise, but had drawn a mouthful of it with a pleased expression.

 

“What's the occasion?” he’d asked.

 

“Nothing, really,” Charles had answered. “Just a small gesture of appreciation.”

 

Logan had peered down at him, his eyes slightly narrowed and said, “You don't owe me anything Charles.”

 

Well, he certainly couldn't say he agreed, but he had understood Logan’s sentiment and so he had answered simply, “I know.”

 

His heart had beat oddly in his chest as Logan looked at him, his fingers gripping the edge of the glass and holding it down near his side. Charles had lost his nerve and moved away, going to choose a book for the evening. He finishes his first glass of scotch a bit too quickly, refilling his tumbler and taking more care to sip at it this time. 

 

The alcohol leaves him feeling loose limbed and warm, and he shucks off his boots and loosens his cravat, having already abandoned his jacket. Logan certainly doesn’t expect him to stand on ceremony, so in short order Charles is slumped down on the far end of the leather couch he had commandeered for the library. His feet are pulled under him and he is sipping from his glass and feigning reading the book held open in his fingers. 

 

In reality, he’s watching Logan over the edge of the leather binding as the man manipulates gears with far more delicacy than Charles would have thought possible on their first meeting. The ubiquitous cigar is close at hand, Logan occasionally drawing from it or his glass of scotch before turning his attention back to the clock. 

 

Charles marvels at his patience with the tiny and intricate machinery, wondering what those wonderful fingers might be capable of in other pursuits. He thinks he's being perfectly inconspicuous in his observation until Logan looks up and makes direct eye contact, a faint smirk pulling at the corner of his lip. 

 

“You'll have better luck reading that book if you turn the pages.”

 

Charles blushes a bit at being caught out, but he doesn’t look away, not this time.

 

Maybe it's the scotch, warm and relaxing in his blood. Maybe it’s the recent awakening of desire, long dormant in Charles’ body. Or maybe it’s the look in Logan’s eyes, teasing and appreciative but obviously not expecting or demanding anything at all. Maybe it’s a mixture of all three, but for whatever reason, Charles is filled with a concrete want for the other man. Not to go to bed with him, not that, not quite yet, but to touch him and be touched with more than passing caresses and pleasant cuddling.

 

There must be something in his gaze for the look on Logan’s face changes as Charles slowly lowers his book, closing it and setting it aside. He wonders if Logan can smell him, the change in his intentions as he knocks back the last of his scotch, keeping his eyes on Logan the entire time. He lets a drop escape on his bottom lip, lapping it up with a slow slide of his tongue and relishing the twitch of Logan’s hand where it rests on his own glass.

 

Charles unfolds himself from the couch, memories of a dance he used to know the steps to by heart echoing in him. There's a confidence in his movements, a careful choreography that's meant to inflame the one he's performing for. His feet make no noise as he paces slow measured steps to stand in front of Logan. 

 

He smiles down at him amused, for though Logan has been watching him attentively he’s made no other move than to turn his head. This has left him with his hands on the desk and feet still under it, but his head turned towards Charles where he stands next to the chair.  Charles rectifies this by grasping the armrest nearest him and pushing so the chair rotates towards him. Logan could easily impede its progress, but he doesn't, he just continues staring at Charles face his expression intensifying when Charles steps between his legs and places his hands on his shoulders.

 

“Logan?” he asks, his voice honeyed even to his own ears.

 

It takes a moment for Logan to answer and Charles watches the bob of his adam’s apple as he swallows before roughly asking, “Yeah?”

 

Charles leans in over the chair, grasping the armrests and crowding Logan back as Logan had done to him in the study. Only Charles keeps going, placing his knees on either side of Logan's thighs until he's perched over his lap.

 

Logan is staring up at him, his eyes wide but his expression serious. Charles leans down so that he can feel the huffs of breath across his face, smell the faint odor of tobacco and fine scotch.

 

“Kiss me.” he breathes out.

 

“You’re drunk.” Logan hedges. 

 

“Hardly. Kiss me, Logan.”

 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Logan evades again, and Charles can’t for the life of him figure out why Logan seems so afraid.

 

“No? I don’t think it’s a good idea either - I think it’s a  _ marvelous  _ idea.”

 

“Charles-” Logan starts, but Charles has had enough.

 

“Oh, shut up,” he says, close enough that his lips brush against Logan’s right before he presses their mouths together.

 

It’s nothing like that first time in the meadow, when Charles had been driven along by the wash of Logan’s lust. It’s him this time, coaxing and teasing along Logan’s mouth, flicking at him with soft curls of his tongue. It’s not until he sucks Logan’s bottom lip into his mouth, nipping roughly that Logan finally bursts into motion beneath him. Arms come around Charles’ back, one pulling him close, the other winding up until the back of Charles’ neck is framed in a large hand. He’s aware of an answering, somewhat familiar red desire pulsing along his consciousness, but he welcomes it now reveling in the intensity of it matching his own.

 

Logan leans back, the chair canting obligingly as he answers the caresses of Charles’ tongue with his own. He kisses him thoroughly, mapping him out with teeth, lips, and tongue. Gentle and desperate all at once, he’s making sounds like he’s in pain, and every few moments, he pulls back and looks up into Charles’ blue, blue eyes like he can’t actually believe he’s there in his arms.

 

And really, Charles is the one who feels like this is all too good to be real. That someone would ever find worth in him again, that he would ever find worth in himself. As he runs his fingers through Logan’s hair, he feels a fullness in his chest, threatening to overwhelm him with emotion. His kisses become rough, his fingers tugging Logan’s head to a sharper angle so he can thrust his tongue deeper, so he can move to bite along his jaw.

 

He starts chanting Logan’s name, pulling desperately at the stiff collar of his shirt, trying to lick along his neck. He wants to bite there, to pull up a dark mark that tells everyone that Logan is his, that he belongs to Charles, even though he knows it’s impossible, that any mark would fade almost immediately. Frustrated, he returns to kissing him, sucking Logan’s tongue into his mouth before giving his own over for the same treatment. 

 

Charles is drunk of the twineing symmetry of physical and emotional desire, his body jumping headlong into the possibility of fulfillment of both. There’s a answering hardness at Logan’s groin where Charles is rutting against him blindly. Logan’s hands are on his hips, and Charles can’t be sure if he’s trying to stop him or encourage him. 

 

Charles is so hot, his head is rushing with pleasure and need, he reaches down, tugging at the laces of Logan’s breeches, desperate to free his cock, to stroke him, to free his own and rut them together until-

 

Logan makes a strangled noise and seizes both Charles wrists, standing so that the smaller man is dislodged from his lap. Confused, Charles blinks up at him, a look of hurt in his eyes.

 

“Charles, slow down for a second,” Logan grates out, his voice almost raw. 

 

“I thought…” Charles starts, suddenly unsure of all that has transpired. Unsure of himself. But it’s still there, most certainly. The edge of want, the desire and the fullness in his chest. “Do you not want this? I don’t understand.”

 

Logan sighs, pulling Charles close again, but careful not to touch their lower halves together in a way that inflames either of them. He tilts Charles head back, kissing him again, returning to a slow, intimate pace. When he pulls back, the blue eyes are heavy lidded once more, all the uncertainty gone. 

 

“Fuck yes, I want you. I always want you. But that’s not the issue here. Listen darlin’, if you can look me right in the eye and tell me you’re ready for this to go further, I’ll toss you over my shoulder and carry you to bed right now. But,” here he stops looking into Charles eyes and Charles can see the desire there, but it’s tempered with that bottomless patience he has come to marvel. “If you aren’t absolutely, completely and totally ready, that’s fine with me. I won’t be angry, and I won’t be upset with you.”

 

Charles considers it, telling Logan he’s ready, but he knows it wouldn’t be fair. The truth is he had only been thinking that he wasn’t ready to go to bed with him quite yet only moments earlier. He’s barely rediscovered this side of himself, this physicality of passion. Logan has been so  _ good  _ to him, and to lie to him - no matter how much he  _ wants  _ it to be the truth - would be wrong. 

 

He winds his arms around Logan, burying his face in his chest for a few moments. He’s faintly embarrassed that he allowed himself to get so caught up in the moment. When he looks back up Logan is smiling down at him.

 

“Can we at least kiss some more?” Charles asks.

 

“Hell, yes.” Logan answers.

 

And they do. They kiss a lot more.

  
  


*****

 

One month, three weeks, and six days after beginning to sort through the mess of records the evening has finally arrived when the very last box has been opened, sorted, and is ready to be filed away. It had turned into somewhat of an occasion, Madge and Logan joining Hank and Charles as they file the last two pieces of parchment, the ink barely dry on one of them. 

 

Hank had wanted the honors to go to Charles, but Charles had refused. After all, the ingenious filing system had been all Hank’s idea, so it was only fair they each file a page at the same time. Which was how the pair of them ended up staring at each other, each at their respective locations, papers held gently in their fingers over the final resting places of said files, grinning like loons at the thought of finally seeing the completion of the fruits of their labor.

 

“Should we count down?” Charles asked with a smile.

 

“For crying out loud, would you two just put the damn things away?” Logan interrupted. “You’d think the you would have spent enough time in here already.” 

 

He sounded gruff as always, but there was a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth,  and in his hands he held a bottle of champagne.  Charles, in an excessively pleased mood, gave him a saucy wink which earned him an expression of faint shock that was quickly covered with a raised eyebrow.

 

He turned his attention back to the paper in his hands, nibbling his bottom lip a little as he grinned.

 

“You heard the man.” Charles said, realizing there was a feeling of true happiness snuggled in his chest that he had not felt in years. He blinked at the prickling behind his eyes, instead counting out loud, “Three! Two! One!”

 

The pop of the champagne was timed perfectly to coincide with the end of the countdown, Logan’s personal addition to the cheers and applause shared by the three others in their little gathering. Charles threw his head back and laughed, turning to an unusually effusive Hank who surprised himself and Charles both by picking Charles up and swinging him in a circle as both of the men continued with their own cheers.

 

There was a sharp “Hey!” from Logan, who was currently pouring glasses of bubbling liquid into flutes held out by Madge, but it lacked any real heat. Still, Hank abruptly let go of Charles with a blush and a faintly horrified expression.

 

This of course only made Charles laugh even harder as he slapped the tall man on the back.

 

“Hank!,” he teased, “I had no idea you were so strong.” Of course it was a lie, since the pair had been working in close proximity with each other for almost two months now. Hank had often demonstrated superhuman strength when lugging things here and there for Charles. That didn't stop the comment from causing Hank to pink even further.

 

“You trying to make me jealous?” was rumbled in Charles’ ear as he was gently pulled back against Logan's chest. In an impressive show of dexterity, two flutes of champagne materialized in the hand not currently circled gently around Charles waist. He extricated one deftly and took a long sip, the burst of sweetness delightful on his tongue. Good gracious, how long had it been since he’d drunk champagne? He couldn’t even remember.

 

“Of course not, I'm sure you're almost as strong as Hank.” Charles answered, widening his eyes before adopting his most innocent voice. “It’s not my fault if I don’t have an example of you sweeping me off my feet as a comparison.” 

 

Logan was smiling down at him, but there was a look of bemusement on his face. “If I didn't know for a fact that you’ve only had one sip of champagne, I might think you were drunk.”

 

Charles ignored him. So what if he got a bit more flirty when alcohol was involved? Logan hadn’t complained yet of the results when Charles pulled him onto the couch for evening sessions of kissing that sometimes tasted of good scotch. “You weren’t saying such things last night.”

 

He took another sip, looking down into the bubbling amber liquid, thinking of how easy such light banter had been to him long ago - thinking how more and more pieces of himself were coming back to life under the watchful and patient care of the man currently turning to chat with Madge and Hank over the top of Charles’ head.

 

He joins in the small talk, breaking away from Logan’s gentle hold to help set up the impromptu feast Madge had conjured for them from the kitchens. They eat and laugh and drink champagne, working their way into a second bottle before the talk turns to the possibility of hiring more people now that the records are in order. Madge dramatically sighs at the thought of the rest of the manor finally begin able to be cleaned once they have a proper staff. He shrugs and drinks some more, listening to Logan’s pleasing rumble as he snuggles back into him, Logan easily looping his arms around as they lean back against the desk.

 

“I  _ am  _ going to hire some more people,” Logan says, “but it will only be two or three at first so don’t get too excited. I still need to have some meetings with some folks so we can get this place back on it’s feet financially.” Logan puts a slice of cold turkey and cheese on a piece of bread, handing it to Charles before continuing. “Hank and Charles have found some old paperwork that shows a previous partnership with one of the wood mills in town though, so I figure we can start there and work out a contract if they are still interested. I want to clear out some of the forest that’s grown up around the house while it’s been empty, if we can make some money off it in the process, all the better. I have other investments, so we aren’t going to be out on the streets anytime soon, but I’d like to look into turning them into something more sustainable.”

 

“Hmm,” Charles mumbled around the bite of food currently in his mouth. He took a swig from his thrice refilled flute before he said, “I can make some inquiries from some people if you like, find out the current rates and whatnot, make sure we go in knowing where we stand so we don’t get taken short. I had quite a few advisors, who I’m sure will be shocked to hear from me, but they made their fortunes over a few times while I was head of the Xavier household, so there’s no reason they wouldn’t help me out now. Especially if they feel they can make their own gains from it. 

 

“Hell, they’d probably do it just so they can tell everyone they were contacted by the fallen Charles Xavier at the next soiree. I can hear them now,” here he adopted his best gossiping socialite voice, pitching it high for comedic effect, “‘Do you know who I heard from the other day? Charles Xavier! You know - he was thrown over by his lover, abandoned by his sister - who I hear ran away with the lover, if you can imagine that! And all after the mansion was destroyed! Oh no, he’s not dead apparently, though I hear he made a good go of it!’” He tittered mockingly, sipping more champagne.

 

It took him a moment to notice the room had gone rather quiet. He looked up, his brows furrowed in question before the content of his last words registered in his brain. 

 

He never talked about his past, not even with Logan, and though everyone knew he had at some point come from money, he had never spoken of this or indicated that he wanted to do so. And now that he had, he realized that he very much he wished he had not. His face was doing some very complicated things, if the stunned expressions of both Hank and Madge were anything to go by - or at least they were until neither of them were looking at him anymore, having apparently found something terribly interesting in the respective regions of Hank’s shoes and Madge’s champagne flute.

 

There was a growing tightness in Charles’ chest that had nothing to do with the warm feelings he had been experiencing only moments before he opened his mouth; it was instead due to the thought that this new little family he had found for himself would look at him differently now. Now that they had a hint of who he had once been. Even the warm lines of Logan pressed against his back had stiffened.

 

Charles stared at his champagne flute before raising it to his mouth and downing the entire thing. He stood away from Logan, who let him go without comment or any movement to hold him back. Without making eye contact with anyone, Charles set his flute softly on the desk, the faint  _ ‘tic’  _ it made exaggeratedly loud in his ears. He traced his finger down the side of it, gathering the condensation and tracking it down and onto the desk, a bead of water standing in the imprint of his fingertip as he pulled his hand away.  

 

“I wish I hadn’t said that,” he whispered out, knowing they would hear him anyway and not trusting the steadiness of his voice enough to go for any more volume. He swallowed against the tightness that had now worked its way into his throat.

 

“Oh, Master Charles,” he heard Madge say softly, her voice wavering with emotion and threatening to make his own overflow. He blinked rapidly and turned to flee the room, barely aware of the flutter of activity and muttered curse behind him as he began to run towards his bedroom.

 

His feet pounded on the stairs, echoed by heavier footfalls as Logan pursued him shouting, “Charles! Wait a damn minute!” But he didn’t listen, suddenly terrified of looking at Logan, of being looked  _ at  _ by Logan. If he had been thinking rationally, he would have known it was pointless to run, to try and get away from the man who had been patiently yet doggedly pursuing him since that fateful day in the meadow.

 

Logan caught up to him in the long stretch of hallway, overtaking him from behind. But Charles fought against him, fueled by alcohol and a terrible mix of fear, dread, and self loathing.There was an ancient anger and hurt there too, rearing its ugly twin heads of regret and a choking sadness. Charles felt mad with it, as he had in those early days, when he’d been a raging, wrecking thing, destroying anything near him with his bare hands just to feel something besides the gaping maw of emptiness. And when that had failed, he’d chased the pain to quiet at the bottom of bottle after bottle until he couldn’t bear to live in the shell of the home he’d once had and had left it all behind.  

 

It registered somewhere in his mind that Logan didn’t seem very surprised by his reaction, even as he thrashed and scratched at his arms, screaming and fighting against him every step as Logan dragged him to his bedroom. It didn’t matter that was where he had been fleeing to in the first place. 

 

Logan manages to wrestle them in the door before kicking it closed behind them once they are safely ensconced inside. His hold relaxes a little bit and Charles twists, turning in his arms to face him and raking his nails down his face hard enough to draw blood.

 

“Fuck!” Logan exclaims as he lunges forwards, reaching towards Charles hands while growling out “Charles, calm down!” and for one horrible moment, Charles flinches back violently and wonders if Logan might beat him. 

 

And it  _ is  _ a horrible moment, because Charles knows Logan would never,  _ never  _ because he has only ever treated Charles with the utmost care, and Charles has repaid him by resorting to physical violence in a bid to enrage him for reasons he doesn’t quite understand himself.

 

His eyes, wide and full of torment look up where blood is running down from four furrows dug shockingly deep in Logan's skin. One is across his brow, another dangerously close to his eye, and two twins right across his cheekbone and tearing into his top lip and corner of his mouth. 

 

It doesn't matter that they're healing right before his eyes. It doesn't matter that he knows they'll be no trace of them come morning. He feels such a rush of hot shame that he barely has time to turn away from Logan and drop to his knees before he is sick all over the floor. Hair falls into his face as his body heaves, the stench of bile and champagne rising as the sight of blood and skin under his nails has him retching again and he just wants Logan to  _ go already and leave him alone to wallow in his fucking misery _ .

 

And Logan’s voice is hard as he answers the words Charles doesn’t even realize he said aloud.

 

“I’m not leaving, Charles.” 

 

But his hands - oh, his hands - they are soft and gentle as they pull his hair away from his face and skate along the curve of his back. As they rub circles over the tight muscles along his lower spine and shift him back once the heaving has stopped. And then they are pulling him up and away from the mess in the floor, guiding him to the ensuite and running hot water. Logan dips the edge of a towel in the water, wiping at Charles face and mouth, telling him, ‘Sit here, I’ll be right back’ before he goes to clean up the sick from by the door. 

 

It’s such a strange thing, to realize in  _ that  _ moment - watching Logan wipe the floor on his hands and knees, his eyes turning to Charles with naked worry every few seconds - that Logan isn’t going to leave him, isn’t going to hurt him. Not even when Charles gives him reason. It settles in  his mind, a certainty his swimming brain can’t quite devote the space to deal with in the moment, not through the haze of its recent upheaval.

 

“Hold on, Charles,” Logan says as he stands, opening the bedroom door slightly before dropping the soiled towel outside. He comes back to the ensuite, washing his hands, keeping a watchful eye on Charles all the while. The smaller man is shivering, his body so tense he feels like a pelt stretched too far, the edges giving way to the pressure of being tied to a drying rack. He’s pretty sure he’s in some form of shock, and he barely even reacts as Logan leans down and removes Charles’ boots before pulling him from his seat, hands tenderly turning him this way and that as he pulls off his layers of clothes. He goes onto his knee again, stripping off Charles’ breeches with efficient movements.

 

Everything is muted, running through his brain at the pace of cool molasses, so he only realizes the implications of being naked when he notices that Logan isn’t looking at his body at all, only framing his face in those amazing hands and looking into his eyes. There is fresh, pink skin forming on the edges of the scratches, except at the very deepest parts where there is still the bright sheen of blood. Charles looks down and away from the serious gaze, feeling awkward and ugly in an entirely unphysical way as he grips his elbows, digging his nails into his own skin as penance.

 

Logan sighs, “Stop that.” His hands pull Charles’ away from their bruising grip. He holds onto one of them, his thumb tracking over the knuckles as he turns off the water. “Come on, in the tub now.”

 

His voice is so even, easy to listen to and easy to follow. There’s no demands, no shouting or berating, no call for Charles to defend himself or implore for understanding.

 

_ Steady.  _

 

Like the grip that guides him over the white porcelain, supporting him in his weakness instead of goading him and dragging him down, bracing him instead of inciting him. And along the back of his mind he once again hears, ‘ _ I ain't him’  _ echoing faintly.

 

The water is hot, sinking through Charles’ skin and warming up his muscles. Already he can feel the rigidness which had set into him begin to bleed away.

 

The stool he was on is moved behind the tub and then water is being poured over his head. 

 

“I’m going to wash your hair now.” 

 

Logan works the lather efficiently, his fingers firm and sure as they work along the curves of his skull, and Charles dimly realizes his head is aching even as the pain begins to leach away under the ministrations of Logan’s fingers. When they encounter the scar, they only pause for a moment, tracing the jagged length of it along its meandering path from the base of his skull to the crown. It’s not the first time he’s felt it, because sometimes when they are kissing Logan would run fingers through the long strands, and Charles had stopped pulling away from them after that first time. However, they haven’t ever truly felt the span of it before, or been allowed to explore it so thoroughly as the water and suds were allowing now.

 

Halfway between reality and some other place, Charles offers, “He didn’t mean to.”

 

There’s a red pulse of rage and Charles whimpers in pain as it sets against his defenseless and raw emotions, spearing hurt behind his eyes. His hands come up to bracket his head, pressing like he can keep his skull together and the pain recedes in wavering laps against his mind, Logan struggling to contain his emotions. Logan’s fingers resume their earlier movements, and the flares eventually fade fully, along with the pain and Charles drops his hands.

 

Awareness comes back to him slowly, a bubble resurfacing through viscous matter as he is methodically bathed by broad hands. He notices Logan has stripped to his shirt, the sleeves rolled up and out of reach of the water. Charles watches Logan’s face, noticing the tightness of his jaw, the deeply furrowed brow. He raises his hand from the water and Logan freezes.

 

Charles touches Logan’s face, tracing down now barely marred cheek, sliding fingers underneath his chin and turning Logan’s face towards him.

 

Charles presses his fingers in that furrowed brow, aware enough to see the nearly sick worry in Logan’s eyes. It leaves Charles wondering if he himself looks as wrecked as he currently feels. From the expression on Logan’s face, perhaps it’s somewhat worse.

 

Logan scoots nearer to him, wiping away a tear that is slowly tracking down Charles’ face. The tenderness is so real so underserved that Charles suddenly feels raw and open, like someone has stripped away all his skin and left his nerves flayed to the elements. His voice breaks on a sob and he’s saying ‘ _ I’m sorry, I’m sorry’ _ over and over and clinging to Logan like a lifeline.

 

Because he is. Because Logan has chosen to be.

 

He pulls Charles out of the tub, cradling him close as he dries him with warm, fluffy towels. He carries him to the bed and settles them both in the covers. He holds Charles until he stops weeping, crooning nonsense and pretending like his own heart isn’t torn in two at seeing him this way. It feels like hours before he settles, and Logan is wondering if he should try to extricate himself or stay the night when Charles startles him by speaking. 

 

“You once asked my my story,” Charles says, his voice rough from crying.

 

“I did,” Logan answers as he reaches to take Charles’ hand in his, reassured by the slight squeeze of the smaller hand in his own.

 

“I’m ready to tell you now.”

 

Charles begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning notes :Charles has a panic attack here and also lashes out at Logan, specifically scratching his face while in the middle of the panic attack. There are also mentions of child abuse and emotional abuse. 
> 
> So, it gets a little bit heavy here, but I still wanted to show that Logan is equipped to deal with Charles issues. Hope you guys enjoyed! As always, comments are greatly appreciated!

**Author's Note:**

> Ok. Hope you're enjoying so far. Comments give me life, please feel free to leave them.
> 
> Seriously, I love them, all authors do.
> 
> Follow me on tumblr if you like, but be warned it's a multi-ship zone.
> 
> Romancebyfaye.tumblr.com


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